


Gold Mine

by Aate



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Creatures, Hurt Original Percival Graves, Infatuated Percival Graves, Lectures, M/M, Oblivious Newt, Slow Burn, Stalker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aate/pseuds/Aate
Summary: A stalker wants Newt, but since Newt only has eyes for one Percival Graves, the stalker needs to remove Graves from the picture for good.





	1. Breaking and Entering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this fic so it might be a little different from what you remember. I prefer it like this, however, and I hope you do, too.

Newt chose to hide in the heel of Percival Graves’ combat boot.

While the auror was showering after a rather intense workout, Newt sneaked into the sweat-smelling locker room and – with an effective spell, having practiced it many a time beforehand – hollowed out the low heel of the black combat boot. He was quick to put the empty snuff box he had brought with him into the hollowed out heel, and then, without wasting a moment, he climbed into the magically enlarged snuff box, from where he did a careful spell to put the sole of the heel back in place to cover up the metal snuff box and the hollowed out heel.

By the time Percival Graves entered the locker room, a white towel wrapped around his hips, his combat boots stood where he had left them, seemingly untouched. After having dried himself with a spell and after having gotten dressed, Percival Graves put his boots on and went on with his day, completely unaware of the magizoologist hiding in his left boot.

“I s-s-should have at l-l-least taken - _ow_ \- the t-t-time to a-a-add a few balancing charms on the - _ouch_ \- snuff box,” Newt admitted to a worriedly chirping Pickett, hugging his suitcase to his chest, trying to keep his balance, as the considerable quaking of the snuff box signaled them that Director Graves was walking around.

Newt had met Percival Graves a handful of times after having returned to New York to market his new book, _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ some weeks ago. Director Graves had wanted to meet him, interested as he had been in Newt’s part in Grindelwald’s arrest, and Tina had been the one to arrange their first meeting, but since then, Newt had run into Graves in the most unexpected of places varying from Muggle libraries to benches in Central Park, as well as places expected, like the lobby of Department of Magical Law Enforcement where Newt often waited for Tina.

Director Graves had always been polite, asking Newt about his hobbies (“Do you dance, Mr. Scamander?”) and whether he was planning on getting to know New York City better (“Would you be interested in spending the evening on a boat trip along Hudson River?”), but if he knew that Newt was planning on _breaking into his home_ this evening, Newt would - in the addition of the polite man he had encountered a handful of times so far - likely quickly get acquainted with the famed auror deemed so fierce and dangerous that even Gellert Grindelwald had gone for him first.

“ _This_ is undoubtedly the most reckless thing I have ever done.”

That was quite a thing to say, seeing as Newt had once disguised himself as a dragon egg just to get closer to a nesting Hungarian Horntail to spread soothing oil over the tail she had wounded when she had protected her eggs from a swarm of hungry griffins.

“If Director Graves catches us, there’s little even Theseus can do to save me from a lengthy prison sentence - breaking into the home of Director of Magical Security is a major offense.”

Pickett let out a worried chirp, pulling Newt’s earlobe as if to urge him to leave, as if to urge him to escape when they still had the chance, when no major crimes had yet been committed.

“Sorry, Pickett,” Newt sighed, calm and determined despite of the pounding of his heart. “I can’t turn back. This is the best chance we have at breaking into the mansion of _The Most Dutiful and Honorable House of Graves_ without being detected. This is something that must be done, and you know it.”

In his defense, Newt hadn’t exactly planned on breaking into the manor of _The Most Dutiful and Honorable House of Graves_ , into the home of Director of Magical Security. Rather, it was one of those things that just sort of happened when one wasn’t looking.

So, really, it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

Although, yes, fair enough, he had had to plan _some_ beforehand – the mansion of _The Most Dutiful and Honorable House of Graves_ was not an easy estate to break into, after all, and Newt could not afford mistakes, so of course he had simply _had to_ plan the burglary beforehand – but he certainly hadn’t come to New York with a burglary in mind because, again, it had been one of those things that just… happened.

Besides, Newt preferred to call these kinds of missions “search and rescue operations” rather than burglaries:

Earlier that week when Newt had been waiting for Tina in the lobby of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he had happened to overhear Director Graves talking to one of the senior aurors, to one Ollie Artmore. Director Graves had told Artmore that he had “a rowdy bastard of a boggart” in the attic and that he was trying to “get rid off it” – based on the rest of the conversation, Newt had been able to gather that Director Graves had been _torturing_ the poor boggart for days in vain attempts to kill it. Magical communities didn’t yet know much of boggarts and Director Graves had been treating the poor creature in an outright cruel manner, as far as Newt could tell, and Newt simply hadn’t been able to leave the matter be, to let Director Graves continue hurting the boggart.

Newt studied the map he had spread out over the bottom of the snuff box so he could keep an eye on their location, so he would be able to tell when Director Graves apparated to his mansion. A red spot signaled their location, it was currently standing on top of New York City, on top of the auror headquarters, to be precise, just as it had been for hours.

A comfortable distance away from the ever so busy New York City, a three-story stone manor stood peacefully in ten acres of land. The mansion of _The Most Dutiful and Honorable House of Graves_ had been built in 1780s and since then it had been a home to generations of spectacular aurors, each more capable than the last which meant that every piece of the building was carefully warded, every ounce of the estate was protected by spells casted by excellent aurors determined to shield their family and home from dark magic users.

No witch or wizard could step into the manor grounds uninvited, unannounced, and not even Gellert Grindelwald had managed to gain entrance during his time disguised as Percival Graves. Newt knew this from having inspected, studied, researched. As far as he could tell, the only way to break inside was to apparate there alongside with Percival Graves without Graves’ knowledge – which was the exact reason why Newt was now hiding in the combat boot, ready to be apparated into the Graves’ estate without Percival Graves being any wiser.

* * *

It took several hours of waiting before Director Graves gave even a hint of possibly heading home, much longer than Newt had expected. Apparently, Director of Magical Security worked long hours, or at least he had decided to do so today, of all days.

“Doesn’t matter,” Newt told Pickett who, by now, was sleeping on top of Pennsylvania on the map, curled up under the white handkerchief Newt had covered him with. “The longer Director Graves works, the more tired he will be – and the deeper his sleep will be, the easier it will be for us to sneak around his home without being noticed.”

If anything, Newt was patient when he had a clear goal in mind. Now that his goal was to save the boggart from Director Graves, he didn’t mind waiting in the least, despite of the faint smell of ammonia left in the box by the cheap snuff it had once contained.

It had been seven o’clock precisely when Newt had made the heel of Director Graves’ combat boot his hiding place, and by the time he felt the familiar nudge of apparition, his pocket watch told him it was half four in the morning. Looking from his pocket watch to the map on the floor, Newt noted that the red spot was now standing right outside of New York City on an area called…

“Stony Point,” Newt read from the map, hugging his knees to his chest.

A smile tugged at his lips.

They were there, Director Graves had just come home – and he had apparated Newt there with him without being any wiser.

Newt’s plan had worked.

* * *

Newt waited for an hour before he had the boot falling to its side, before removing the sole of it with a quiet spell. Pickett was quick to sneak out of the snuff box to take a look around and just as quick he was to return, chirping eagerly, letting Newt know that all was clear, that it was safe for Newt to come out.

Cautiously, Newt climbed out of the snuff box with Pickett sitting on top of his hair holding on to his curls – only to find himself standing by the foot of a large four poster bed in a cozy bedroom dark but for the moonlight pouring in from the three large windows. There was the sound of soft snoring coming from under the blankets silvery white in the moonlight, and Newt instantly motioned for Pickett to be silent.

They were in Director Graves’ bedroom, in the very heart of the mansion, and if Director Graves was to wake up now, Newt would be charged with such crimes that Pickett would be an ancient bowtruckle by the time Newt was released from prison.

Never taking his eyes off the wizard sleeping but a few yards from him, Newt leant down to straighten up the combat boot, to attach the sole on it with a spell to cover up the snuffbox, minding the tufted bench next to him, careful to not accidentally push it so the legs made of wrought iron wouldn’t scrape against the dark hardwood floor.

With Pickett holding on to his hair, Newt sneaked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

All he now had to do was to find the attic and the boggart within.

The hallway right outside the bedroom was narrow, and the walls had portraits on them, all of them of the members of the Graves household. The Graves in the portraits, dark-featured with thick eyebrows, were thankfully asleep, none of them noticing Newt as he walked past them. As Newt walked past, careful to thread his way silently as to not draw any attention to himself, he caught a few names from the gilded nameplates under the portairts –

Obediah Graves Jr. (1801—1889)  
Amanda Graves (1860—1914)  
Elizabeth Graves (1739—1816)  
Lucy Graves (1889—1900)

– and he couldn’t help but wonder in what way Percival Graves was related to all the people commemorated in the portraits. Had the young Lucy Graves with her braids been a sister, a cousin?

It took Newt quite a while of wandering blindly around, but eventually he managed to make his way up to the third floor of the mansion and, from there, all the way up to the attic where the boggart was said to be.

It was pitch-black and the stairs leading up to the attic were dangerously steep. There was nothing there to hold on to, no railings to speak of, and Newt – with the wand in his mouth to offer some light – tried to keep his balance by running one hand along the wall as he climbed up, the suitcase securely in the other. The plank steps creaked under each of his steps, the sound of it loud in his ears, in the otherwise peaceful mansion, and when he managed to push the hatch of the attic open, he was hit with stale air so dusty that it had him sneezing which, in turn, had the wand falling from his mouth – and clattering down the stairs.

“Oh bugger,” Newt said, Pickett’s sigh of a chirp echoing the sentiment, and looked around the attic completely black now that he had lost his wand.

The tip of the wand was casting warm light and it was therefore easy to find from where it had rolled to the foot of the steep stairs.

Having climbed up the stairs for the second time, Newt was finally able to take a look around, to see whether a tortured boggart was indeed living in the attic as Director Graves had claimed the case to be. He had barely taken but a step forward, however, when there already was the sound of pitiful cries coming from one of the corners, the sound of a _creature dying_ , which had his heart clenching painfully in his chest.

“There you are,” Newt managed to say from the intense heartache, from the horror strong enough to bring tears to his eyes. “Don’t be scared, little one – I’m not here to harm you.”

The boggart cried harder and when Newt got closer to the far corner from where the sounds were coming from, he saw Niffler twitching on the dusty floor suffering in visible pain. The closer Newt walked, the harder Niffler was twitching, the more it seemed to be suffering, the harder, the more pitiful its crying became.

Niffler’s cries were like physical touches, like someone was clawing at Newt mercilessly, and Newt had to close his eyes, to take a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. He blinked furiously against the tears clouding his vision.

When he looked again, Niffler had vanished and in his place there was Alfonso, Newt’s dear thunderbird. Alfonso’s white feathers had a grey, sickly tint to them, his chest was rising and falling unnaturally fast, bloody vomit was coming out of his opened beak in a steady stream – the sight broke Newt’s heart and he couldn’t help a sob escaping his lips.

When Newt knelt by his side, Alfonso let out a soft gurgle – before he vanished and his place was taken by Pickett, twisted like someone had snapped him in the middle.

Squeaking, the real Pickett jumped down onto Newt’s shoulder and dashed off to hide in the inside pocket of Newt’s coat.

“Don’t be scared, Pickett,” Newt comforted the bowtruckle. “The boggart is just trying to scare me away by showing me my worst fear: my mere presence being enough to hurt and kill my creatures. None of this is real, none of this will come to pass. There is no reason to fear. It’ll all be okay, Pickett. Don’t worry.”

Exhaling shakily, Newt stuffed his wand in his coat pocket – letting it cast its light from there – and put the suitcase down to his side. He snapped the hatches open, opening the case, and offered the boggart – now in the form of a tormented unicorn – a trembling smile.

“Not to worry, little one.” His voice was thin and he coughed once to clear it. “It’s all going to be okay. I’m going to take you away from here so the wizard downstairs can’t hurt you again. Do you like the sound of that? Wouldn’t it be nice? I’ll find you a new home, boggart, somewhere dark, in some confined cupboard somewhere. Perhaps a crammed chest – wouldn’t you like that?”

The boggart answered by turning into a-

-into a weary-looking Percival Graves, who gave him such a defeated look that Newt came to a complete halt, unable to do nothing but gape.

What?

Percival Graves was not Newt’s worst fear, surely?

“You have no reason to keep on fighting,” the boggart Graves said, shaking his head in a despondent manner. “You do know it’s all for nothing, don’t you? Darkness has won and there’s nothing you can do about it because no-one cares. It doesn’t matter to anyone else – people are growing more and more impassive, all the more indifferent. Grindelwald has won, and it doesn’t even matter because everyone but you supports him. Why should you keep on fighting when no-one cares but you? You have lost, all your efforts have been for nothing. _You_ are for nothing and you have no reason to keep on going. So give up, old man. You have no reason to keep on going, so just give up already, like I have done.”

Terrible though the words were, this… was not his worst fear, Newt was positive of that. He shook his head slowly, more than a little bewildered. For a few seconds, he suspected he had been mistaken, that he had falsely believed the creature to be a boggart when in fact it was something else, but then he understood what was happening in all actuality.

This was not his worst fear.

This was not _his_ worst fear.

It was someone else’s, and that someone else had to be present, fairly close by, for the boggart to react to them.

With dread filling him, with his heart sinking, Newt slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder – and, yes, just as he had suspected: Percival Graves – the real Percival Graves – was standing there behind him, a wand in hand, wearing slippers and a dressing robe over his striped pajamas, his hair a complete disarray, dark eyes fixed on the boggart, the look on his face guarded, unreadable.

“D-Director Graves!” Newt managed from the lump that formed in his throat. He scrambled to stand up to face the man. “I didn’t hear you coming up the stairs.”

Director Graves gave him a brief look, but then his eyes focused on the boggart again. His face set into a grim line.

“When someone stumbles around my bedroom, I am bound to wake up, and no matter how lovely the surprise might be, I shouldn't be taken off guard like that - my magic might not react favorably,” his voice had a tense edge to it like he was barely keeping it controlled. “And when someone sneaks around my manor in the middle of the night, sneezes and _throws their wand down the stairs_ when about to come face to face with a dangerous creature, I am bound to take notice. Or do you take me for a complete idiot, Mr. Scamander?”

Shaking his head furiously, Newt opened his mouth to answer, but he never got the chance to voice his thoughts because Director Graves already went on, “Now, you are standing with your back to a boggart, Mr. Scamander, and those are notably particularly dangerous, so may I suggest that you move away from the creature, slowly. I will defend you from it, I _will_ protect you, but you must get behind me to get out of the way.”

And that was enough to give Newt a start, to have him spreading out his arms to shield the boggart from the armed auror. He glanced at the creature over his shoulder. It was still in the form of Director Graves, staring at the auror with empty eyes, the broad shoulders hunched.

“The boggart is completely harmless,” Newt was quick to assure, arms spread out to shield it, even as he turned back to Director Graves – who was now staring at him like he thought Newt had completely lost it. Newt bent his head, flushing, studying the auror from behind his fringe, suddenly terribly self-conscious.

“Life is meaningless,” the boggart chose that moment to say in Director Graves’ voice from behind Newt, “and everything you ever cared about has either died or turned into the darkness. Your loved ones are now the dark witches and wizards you call your enemy, Percival – are you sure you want keep on fighting against the darkness when the darkness holds your heart in the palm of its hand?”

Director Graves tightened his hold on his wand.

“Please, Mr. Scamander,” his voice was nothing but polite, even if his knuckles were white from clenching the wand, “do stand aside.”

“I can’t, no. _Please_ , Director Graves,” Newt pleaded, taking a step closer to the auror in as unthreatening a manner as he could, arms spread out, palms towards the man to show they were empty. “I’m here to take the boggart away. You don’t need to destroy it, you don’t need to hurt it. Let me take it into my suitcase and it’ll never bother you again, I swear!”

“Do you have any idea what we’re dealing with here?” Director Graves had a pinched look on his face. “That thing is a _boggart!_ They can predict your future, and the longer you let them affect you, the direr your future will become. Now, _step aside_ and let me fight it before we are both doomed.”

Newt was already shaking his head, frustrated. The misconceptions of boggarts still persisted, the magical community was terribly misinformed when it came to creatures.

It was all terribly frustrating.

“That is not at all what boggarts do,” he stated firmly, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “and I should know, a magizoologist as I am. I have studied boggarts, I am familiar with them. Boggarts _can’t_ predict the future, I assure you, they _can’t_ affect it any more than you and I can – those are just old misconceptions that won’t go away unless people get educated about creatures better.”

Director Graves was regarding him in silence. He didn’t look convinced.

“You break into my home, and now you’re trying to get the boggart in your possession. For all I know, you could find a way to have it predict my future to you so you could use the information against me. Perhaps you are not the man I thought you to be.”

“The boggart is _not_ predicting your future but _sensing your worst fears_.” Newt was growing all the more frustrated. “It senses your worst fears (I don’t know how, I must study that aspect of boggarts more) and uses them to try and drive you away. This is just a defense mechanisms, a natural anti-predator adaptation, all very typical to boggarts. This boggart was going to settle down here in your attic, deeming it a suitable nesting place, but then we appeared and it’s now trying to scare us away so we will let it be. It can’t tell your future, Director Graves. It won’t hurt you, it won’t hurt us – it just wants to be left alone. I came here to save it from you, not to use it against you.”

Director Graves was frowning, thoughtful. He didn’t make a move to try and get Newt to stand aside, even if his hand remained clenched around the wand.

“You played a considerable part in Grindelwald’s arrest, Mr. Scamander, and, due to that, in my rescue,” he eventually said. “I owe you a great debt. I do not know what prompted you to break into my home, whether you came here for information or property, but if you want the boggart, I suppose it’s yours.”

Relief, lovely like cool water on a hot day, filled Newt and he was smiling at Graves before he even realized he was doing so.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly, twirling to face the boggart Graves once more, not at all aware of the intent way he was being regarded by a pair of dark eyes.

It took him almost twenty minutes to get the boggart into his study down in the suitcase, but eventually he managed to coax it into his wardrobe, having emptied the contents of the wardrobe onto the floor of the study, scattered here and there, out of the boggart’s way.

The boggart was as content as boggarts could be in his temporary new home, and Newt was satisfied to hear it rattling the wardrobe’s doors with relish.


	2. Consequences

By the time Newt climbed out of the suitcase, Director Graves had moved it from the attic down to what had to be the sitting room of the Graves Manor. Fire was blazing in the fireplace, a large portrait of Johannes Graves looked down at Newt from above it, squinting his eyes as he put the glasses higher up on his nose.

“Is this the burglar the whole house is talking about, Percival? I didn’t expect him to be pretty.”

“Don’t compliment the criminal, Uncle,” Amanda Graves, whose portrait News had seen in the hallway earlier, appeared behind Johannes, moving Johannes’ cane gently aside to make room for her large bulk. She glowered down at Newt, wand in hand, and was quickly joined by Obediah Graves in his powdered wig, the scowling Elizabeth Graves, Lucy Graves with her toy wand and several other members of the Graves family whose portraits apparently were located somewhere in the premises. They all wore similar dark-eyed glowers as they studied Newt accusingly.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t notice you sneaking pass by us, boy?” Amanda Graves demanded. “We are _aurors_ , the lot of us-“

“I’m not,” said Lucy, playing with one of her braids, “but I would have wanted to become one, given the opportunity.”

“-and we will guard this home till the day someone turns us into cubist works of art!”

“Cubism is hardly art.” Obediah Graves sounded like they had had this conversation before. "Cubism is pure mockery of art. When I was alive, it didn't exist - and for a good reason!"

“You're saying that just because you couldn't paint."

"I never even wanted to paint!"

"You did so, too, and everyone knows it: you painted poor Arabella, and look how she turned out - she looks nothing like herself!"

"Stop with the petty arguments before you even start,” said the skeleton-like older woman, whose name was apparently Arabella and whose large, misshapen parasol was clearly in everyone’s way. “There is a burglar in our home and _that_ should be everyone’s focus here. Besides, I'm beautiful as I am. My brother painted me perfectly, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Do all please be quiet, or go back to your own paintings.”

The soft request was enough to silence all the Graves in Johannes Graves’ painting.

Percival Graves was sitting in a leather armchair in front of the fireplace, eyeing Newt.

He was holding a familiar wand in a rather absent-minded manner, running a finger along the shaft as if to test the smoothness, as if to feel how well and what kind of magic it would best conduct.

Newt frowned.

“I’d rather you didn’t do that," he admitted. "It’s a bit too intrusive.”

The finger came to a halt.

“My apologies.”

With one last glance at Newt’s wand, Director Graves put it down onto the sofa table in front of him. He then gestured at the sofa on the other side of the table.

“Do sit down, Mr. Scamander,” was an order, not a request, and Newt hurried to obey, swallowing hard as he took his seat.

He was under arrest and they both knew it.

While Newt had managed to save the boggart, he would now have to face the consequences of breaking into the Graves’ estate, of having been caught doing so. Miserable, he wiped his suddenly sweaty hands onto his tweed trousers before lifting the suitcase from the floor up onto his knees and hugging it protectively against his chest.

The fire in the fireplace was quick to heat the right side of his face, but his flush couldn’t be blamed entirely on that. Pickett was silent in his pocket, but he could feel him moving around – it was comforting, even under the circumstances.

“Not once,” Director Graves broke the silence that had fallen between them, “ _not once_ in all my life has anyone managed to break into my home, into this mansion. Not even Grindelwald managed to come in.”

Newt could feel the gazes of the Graves in the portrait. They felt heavy and accusing, almost like a physical touch.

“Yet, here you are – I don’t know if this makes you particularly resourceful, or me particularly incompetent. I do not even know how you did it, how you came in here, let alone _why_ , but rest assured, Mr. Scamander: a burglary, even an attempt, is a serious crime. I could have you imprisoned for this for years, up to twenty years.”

Newt hugged the suitcase closer to his chest. The edges were biting into his flesh, but he didn’t dare to hold onto it any less tightly, he didn’t dare to part from it now, not for a single moment.

“Why did you do it?”

The question was asked in a low voice like Director Graves was reluctant to ask it, yet felt like he had the obligation to do so.

Newt shifted on his seat, fingering a scratch on the leather surface of his suitcase.

“I wanted to save the boggart,” he confessed, although as much should have been clear already. “I overheard you talking about it with Senior Auror Artmore, and I knew I had to do something to help the poor creature since you were mistreating it. I couldn’t let you just keep on doing so.”

There was silence, then-

“You broke into my home because you thought I was mistreating a… boggart.”

“Yes,” Newt confirmed with a nod.

“You broke into my home,” repeated Director Graves, sounding incredulous, “because you thought I was _mistreating a boggart_.”

“Yes.”

“Mistreating. A _boggart_.”

“Yes.” Newt nodded again, eyes firmly on his suitcase.

He heard Director Graves getting up. The wizard came closer until he was standing directly in front of Newt. Newt stared at the slippers, at the hairy ankles.

A finger under his jaw urged his head up. Newt focused his gaze safely onto Director Graves’ pajama collar. Three buttons were undone, revealing chest as hairy as the ankles had been.

“You must look me in the eye,” came the gruff command. “Maintain eye contact until I give you the permission to look away. Have you understood?”

Reluctantly, Newt nodded. With some effort, he managed to look up into the dark eyes, and instantly it felt like the eyes were drilling into his, like they saw straight through him. Fighting against the tears that threatened to cloud his vision, Newt did his best to keep his mind unresisting, to keep it open for Director Graves to see that he was not lying, that he was speaking the truth – occlumency was not one of his talents, but he could have made an effort had he wanted to. This time, he didn’t want to – it was better to have Director Graves believing him from the start, believing the truth.

Eventually, it was Director Graves who broke the eye contact, clearing his throat. Newt inhaled deeply, relieved, and cast his gaze quickly down. Looking at his suitcase felt the safest. He let his curly fringe fall onto his eyes and hunched into himself.

“My apologies,” said Director Graves, voice low, “but that was necessary in order for me to decide how to approach the situation. Now that I know that you have indeed broken into my home because of _a boggart_ with the help of _a shoe_ , I can judge the situation better. Realistically, if a trial was to be had, you would likely end up having to do jailtime.”

Newt couldn’t help but wince.

“Yet,” Director Graves went on, “I wonder if that wouldn’t be a complete waste to the magical community at large. You do know creatures, there is no question about that. You are as much of an expert as it is possible to be, I believe. This in mind – and seeing as I am the sole victim of your crime – I have decided to offer you a way out. So to speak, an alternative punishment. _Accio wand._ ”

Newt’s wand appeared in Director Graves’ hand, just in Newt’s line of sight, and Director Graves placed it down onto the sofa before turning his back to Newt. He went to stand in front of the fireplace, looking down at the fire with his shoulders squared. Newt didn't dare to touch his returned wand, he sat still, stiffly, and just waited.

“There are now two options, Mr. Scamander," was eventually said in a steady voice. "Either we have this taken to a trial which will likely end up with you spending time in prison, or you agree to start giving lectures on creatures at my department to me and my aurors and we shall forget this whole incident ever took place. And for Lewis’ sake, Scamander: the next time you think I’m mistreating a creature, _come talk to me about it_ instead of breaking into my home.”

Newt’s flush deepened.

In hindsight, that should have indeed been the obvious choice for action.

* * *

He was going to be sick. He just knew it.

Newt peeked through the chink in the door. The lecture hall was filled with people, all of them dressed in dark-blue auror uniforms, apart from Percival Graves who was sitting in the front row in his immaculate black suit, golden cufflinks gleaming in the light of the magical lamps. The people, _Newt’s audience_ , his new students, were chattering in soft voices, the atmosphere in the lecture hall palpably pregnant with expectation, with curiosity, with wary excitement.

It was Director Graves’ doing, Newt just knew that, although he didn’t know how exactly the director had managed it.

Director Graves glanced at his pocket watch before putting it back into his vest pocket, frowning. He began to tap his fingers against the lecture hall table.

It was clearly the time for the lecture to begin.

Clutching his papers and the writing pad to his chest, Newt straightened his back, closing his eyes, and took a deep calming breath. He wasn't one for public speaking, most certainly not.

He was going to be sick, he just knew it.

But he would be as dignified about it as he possibly could. 

Pickett was chirping on his shoulder, nudging the lobe of his ear gently. 

“Yes, Pickett,” Newt said with a shaky exhale, opening his eyes. “I remember: it’s this or jailtime, but now I can’t help but wonder if jailtime wouldn’t be the more pleasant one of the two options.” 

The small, cramped lecture hall fell instantly silent when Newt pushed the creaky door open and entered. Eyes fixed firmly on the wooden podium at the front, uncomfortably conscious of all the stares that followed his movements, his approach, he marched straight to his destination, each of his steps loud in the silent hall. 

The walk from the door to the podium felt longer than fifteen steps, it felt like an eternity. 

_This or jailtime_ , Newt reminded himself as he put his papers and the writing pad down on the podium with trembling, sweaty hands. _This or jailtime._

“Um,” he began the lecture, blinking furiously down at the writing pad in front of him, not daring to even glance up at his audience. His face was flushed, he felt uncomfortably hot all over. “G-Good afternoon, aurors.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "'Cause if you liked it, then you should have left a comment on it."


	3. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this fic so it might be a little different from what you remember. I prefer it like this, however, and I hope you do, too.

Despite of the sharp fangs and the growling and the black drool that left corroding spots on the marble floor, Emily was-

“-completely harmless! Don’t hurt her! Please, put your wands away – you’re _scaring her_!"

The entire front row, ten Senior Aurors altogether, had formed a circle around Emily and Newt the moment Emily had stepped out of the suitcase onto the podium.

Newt had tried to make his first lecture more interesting – he had tried to demonstrate how magical creatures, even the potentially lethal ones, weren’t necessarily dangerous if one knew how to behave around them – but now the aurors had their wands out and aimed at her, and Emily’s frightened growling was becoming louder by the moment.

She sensed they wanted to harm her.

 _”She has cubs!”_ Newt grew desperate. He, too, had a wand at ready in case he needed to defend Emily, but there would be so many against them, so many aurors against just the two of them, and he wouldn’t- he wasn’t- _it wouldn’t be enough_ : if the aurors attacked, Emily _would_ get hurt, along with many aurors she would harm while defending herself. Now, she was outright refusing to turn her back to the aurors she considered a threat and Newt couldn't therefore get her back into the safety of the suitcase.

Defensive magic already prickling at his fingertips, Newt tightened his hold on the wand.

“She’s still nursing them!”

“Ah, she is a mammal, then?” Director Graves’ voice, coming from right beside him, gave Newt a start despite of it being perfectly calm and level – the wizard had apparated by his side without his notice, the sound of it hidden in the uproar around them as the lecture hall full of aurors reacted to a corrodile suddenly being in their midst.

Director Graves!

Grasping at the last straw, Newt grasped the wizard by the sleeve. The dark eyes met his, deep and unreadable.

“They’re going to hurt Emily,” Newt spoke fast. “They’re going to hurt my friend. Please, Mr. Graves, stop them.”

He let his desperation show, he let his eyes _plead_ , and Director Graves considered him, blinked, then turned to look at Emily who had turned towards them and was growling intensely at Director Graves, perhaps because he was the closest to Newt or perhaps she could sense that Director Graves was the most powerful being in the hall – in either case, she seemed to consider him their worst threat.

“She’s perfectly harmless,” Newt’s voice trembled. “If she’s not threatened, she won’t hurt anyone.”

Hadn’t Newt been standing so close to the wizard, he wouldn’t have seen the momentary hesitation in the slight twitch of the fingers wrapped around the black wand, but when Director Graves put the wand pointedly into his shoulder holster under his jacket and spoke, there was only assertive decisiveness and authority audible in his voice,

“I did think I was the head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but looking at you lot from this angle, it appears that I have become the fucking ringmaster of _a fucking circus_ – SIT DOWN, you embarrassing monkeys, and behave yourself, and for Lewis’ sake, put those wands away.”

A moment of frozen silence, then the rows from the second to the last – all Junior Aurors, judging from the silver buttons – dropped down onto their seats as one, silent, respectful, and most of the gold-buttoned Senior Aurors hastened to abandon their efforts to circle Emily in order to hurry back to their seats in the front row.

Only one wizard, big and bulky and bald, remained standing, his wand – as well as his sneer – pointed more at Newt than at Emily, although Newt doubted anyone else noticed that particular detail. Senior Auror Franklin Mallington and his condescending manner had become familiar to him over the weeks from all the times the man had “accidentally” shoved him in MACUSA’s hallways when they had passed each other.

“But, Sir,” Mallington was now saying, “that thing looks dangerous. Shouldn’t we make it harmless? It’s literally melting the floor with its spit.”

“I’m well aware of what is happening, Mallington,” Director Graves took a step forward, as if by chance placing himself directly in between Newt and Mallington, hiding them from each other’s view, “which seems to be you disobeying a direct order I just gave. Do I need to give you an oral reprimand as well as the order, or will you _place your ass onto your seat_ and stop embarrassing me in front of our lecturer?”

It didn’t take long for Mallington to choose the latter, though he kept glowering at Newt from his seat from between Senior Aurors Oliviers and Brakov. Newt – relieved Emily had stayed unscathed – pretended to not notice and instead slowly put his wand away into his coat pocket, placing a comforting hand onto Emily’s scaly back. The lighting in the hall gave her scales a blue shade, black though they actually were, and he rubbed her soothingly, kneeling in front of her, and gradually the growling quietened down and stopped entirely, although her red unblinking eyes were firmly trained to Mallington and the other Senior Aurors in the front row.

Director Graves sounded exasperated when he spoke,

“Is this how my department welcomes Mr. Scamander whom _I personally invited_ to teach us?”

With his face suddenly hot, Newt tried to hide it behind Emily’s snout, twining his arms around the beast’s neck. Emily relaxed against him. She smelt like lamp oil.

It had turned out, Director Graves hadn't told anyone of the deal the two of them had made, of the way Newt was giving the lectures to avoid a prison sentence. As far as the wizarding community was concerned, Newt had been invited to speak at the department for reasons not at all related to imprisonment. Newt was, much to his surprise, even getting paid since he had apparently been listed as a consult for MACUSA.

“Even a complete imbecile would understand,” Director Graves’ voice was dangerously calm, “or so I at least presumed ten minutes ago, that when a magizoologist brings a creature with him to motivate and to better educate his audience, the lecture audience _fucking stays as silent and still as possible_ as to not aggravate the beast in any way – that is precisely what Mr. Scamander asked – _eight times_ – you to do before he brought the corrodile onto the podium. And then Mr. Scamander, an expert, _a professional magizoologist_ , had his beast under control even when my aurors, _with drawn wands_ , were shouting at him and threatening his creature. Lucky for us, the beast did not attack and, look, now it’s actually purring.”

Newt didn’t know how the aurors were reacting to Director Graves’ words, hiding behind Emily’s snout as he was. Apart from Director Graves’ voice and Emily’s purring, it was silent in the lecture hall, so the aurors had to be listening avidly. Newt was, for sure.

“I invited Mr. Scamander here and I expected you to show him respect – yet, here I stand, humiliated by my aurors, by their lack of common sense and self-control. This situation could potentially have been lethal, and that is all on us, all on me since I am the one in charge. This can’t happen again. Had this happened in the field with a corrodile with no capable creature experts present, one of us could well be dead by now. Let this incident be a learning experience in on itself – this is precisely why we need Mr. Scamander to teach us how to behave around magical beasts. Listen to him. Ask questions, if you have any. Learn.”

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and feeling somehow like it was directed at him, Newt took a peek from behind the snout. The look on Director Graves’ face was apologetic, sincere. Embarrassed.

“I sincerely apologize on behalf of my department, Mr. Scamander. This shouldn’t have happened.”

“Your aurors were startled.” It was easier to look at the gleaming scales than in those dark, sincere eyes. Newt was blushing enough as it was. “I… can understand.”

And he did. He _did_ understand. He understood their fear. He understood they had been startled – but even though he tried to, he could not understand how _aggressively_ the aurors had reacted to Emily just because she was a little different from what they were used to – just because she was a black, scaly feline almost twice so big as a grown tiger, or just because her drool was corroding the floor, or just because she had fangs that looked like yellow daggers, or – possibly – because of her blood-red eyes.

The aurors had been ready to kill her just because they were scared of her, not because she had given them reason to consider her dangerous. That Newt couldn’t understand, nor accept.

It was as Director Graves had said: they needed to be educated.

“Emily really is harmless,” he said once more. “She wouldn’t hurt anyone without a good reason.”

“We will take your word for it,” Director Graves said, “and I hope you will take mine when I promise you I will do my best to ensure that you or your beasts won’t be threatened again during the lectures.”

There was a pause.

“Well, look at that, Mr. Scamander,” Director Graves sounded pleased, “seems like you’ve got your first question, if you’re ready to answer it.”

Despite of his flushing face, Newt dared to look from behind the snout. And, yes, indeed, Brakov did have his hand raised.

“Y-Yes? Brakov.”

“Ah, yeah.” Brakov lowered the raised hand to rub his neck, offering Newt a sheepish grin like he, too, was embarrassed for the incident that had taken place. “Since the bossman just encouraged us to ask questions, Mr. Scamander, I believe I heard someone saying something about this particular individual here being a mammal? I admit the scales kind of confuse me – she looks more like a reptile to me?”

The rest of the lecture went well enough.

The more Newt spoke, the more natural it came to him. He was talking about _his creatures_ , after all, of the subject most familiar to him, most dear to him, and while people usually rolled their eyes or straight up told him to shut up when he began to talk about his passions, he now had _an entire lecture hall_ full of aurors listening intently as he educated them about his beasts – Director Graves and many others _were even taking notes!_

It was…

It was exciting.

It was _exhilarating_.

It filled Newt with adrenaline, had him feeling like he was soaring up on the sky on a griffin, like he was holding a newborn mooncalf. With his face flushed with excitement, he almost forgot he was being stared at, that he had a crowd of a tens of aurors gathered there in front of him, and he just talked, voiced his passion, as he _educated, taught,_ did his best to spread out knowledge and, more importantly, _understanding_.

Newt had been given a platform, a great opportunity, to speak out on behalf of his creatures to people whose opinion had great importance when it came to everyday encounters with creatures. The aurors were, after all, the people who were called to the scene when there was problem with one beast or another, and if Newt could affect the way they regarded creatures, if he could help aurors to understand creatures better, that could well have positive long-term effects on the creature rights at large.

“Quit your yapping!” a sudden shout behind him gave Newt a start and he was quick to look round – up at the large clock on the wall above the blackboard. The Roman numerals looked sharp, almost like they were frowning down at him.

“It’s five PM!” the clock shouted again. “So shut it, lecturer, and let the poor bastards leave already!”

No sooner had the clock fallen silent than the door to the lecture hall was already pulled open. A janitor in his grey coverall uniform, a lanky, pale man with whiskers that dropped over his wide mouth and made him look like a walrus, made his way in, pulling along a clattering cart filled with brooms, soap and a mop. He gave Newt a bit of a passing glance, ignoring all the aurors.

“Afternoon,” the janitor said, a pipe dangling from his mouth – and began to brush the floor between Newt and his audience as if he was interrupting nothing at all.

“Uh,” said Newt, the sound of the floor being swiped steady background noise. “Uh, w-we will focus on specific creatures in later lectures now that I have given you an overlook on the creature classes at large. In the meantime, I urge you keep an open mind. Thank you for your time.”

Much to his surprise, Newt was actually disappointed to bring the lecture to an end – he would have gladly talked about his creatures for longer.

Percival Graves was the first one to stand up. Vanishing from his seat, he appeared by Newt’s side.

“Well done, Mr. Scamander,” was said in a low voice, somehow too intimate for such a public setting. “You are even better a lecturer than a burglar. I’m looking forward to your next lecture already.”

"Thank you, Director Graves," he said for more than one reason, shuffling through his papers to give his hands something to do.

The dark eyes studying him were warm and really quite lovely, Newt had not failed to notice, and this made it all the more difficult for him to meet them directly.

* * *

Tina wouldn’t stop howling even though her laughter had already startled Pickett awake in the teacup in which he had been relaxing.

Pickett needed the daily herb soak, he needed inorganic nutrients, but he wasn’t patient enough to let his roots absorb water and nutrients which was why Newt liked to let him nap in teacups in the evenings. Pickett seemed to enjoy bathing in teacups. The nutrient water was always lukewarm, just the perfect temperature for his roots, and the herbs were good for his leaves.

Newt now tried to coax him back to sleep, but it was difficult what with Tina howling with laughter right next to them. Pickett was always curious to hear laughter, he was drawn to such things, he couldn’t help it.

“Graves actually called them _m-monkeys?_ ” Tina managed from her laughter, and Newt sighed, frowning at Pickett’s now empty teacup – that should be enough to let Tina know he was a little bothered by her loudness.

It wasn’t. She just kept on laughing, and Pickett climbed up her arm all the way up to her shoulder from where he tried to peek into her mouth, probably to look for the source of the laughter.

Newt couldn’t help but smile at him, fondly. He left him at it. Pickett could always absorb water and nutrients a little later.

A floating tray packed with sandwiches signaled Queenie’s entrance. She was already in her nightgown, her garters clearly visible, but she only smiled when Newt hurried to look everywhere but at her.

“None of that, mister,” she said, kindly. “We both know neither one of us really cares about my current clothing, or the lack of thereof. I know it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, in _any_ way, since my lady parts are not to your liking and since female bodies only make you think academic thoughts. I could be outright naked and you would just wonder if you, too, should shave your legs just to try it out.”

“The answer to which is no!” With a handkerchief Queenie handed over to her, Tina wiped the tears of laughter from her cheeks. “And I’m so, so sorry I missed the lecture, Newt. Graves said I needed to be on-call. He said I could always ask you to teach me privately, friends as we are, but believe me, I would have much preferred to be there in person. Monkeys – if only I could have seen Senior Auror Oliviers’ face!”

She laughed again, and unbeknownst to them, elsewhere in the city, someone was scribbling down a letter.

> Newt Scamander,
> 
> I WANT YOU. 
> 
> Do you believe in love at first sight? You SHOULD. You’re WRONG WRONG WRONG if you don’t and I don’t like it when people are wrong about things that should be OBVIOUS. I hate it. I hate it. It annoys me so much.
> 
> You didn’t notice me, but I noticed you.
> 
> You were intended for me from the very beginning. I know it. So don’t ruin it. I will hurt you, if you ruin it and I don’t want to hurt you because I LOVE LOVE LOVE you. I want you.
> 
> Soon I will have you,
> 
> Your Dedicated Guardian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> "'Cause if you liked it, then you should have left a comment on it."


	4. The Teapot

By the time Newt had climbed out of his suitcase that morning after having made his rounds – after feeding and grooming and changing bandages and cleaning enclosures and after finishing several other vital tasks – Tina had already left for work and breakfast along with a letter with his name on it was waiting for him on the kitchen table. Queenie had been in the bathing room – occasional splashing sounds told of Queenie’s movements there even now, her singing carrying faintly through the closed door – and she had been bathing for so long Newt had eventually stopped waiting for his turn outside the bathroom door and had instead gone back down into his suitcase to shave and to wash in the galvanized metal washtub he mostly used for bathing cubs, calves and other small beasts in need of it.

Stirring his chamomile tea, Newt – clean and freshly shaven – now studied the letter addressed to him.

The message had been written on a piece of cheap parchment, the kind most people used for taking notes or for doodling, and while there was nothing special about the parchment itself, the handwriting surely drew Newt’s attention: Initially neat and cursive, it quickly turned rather chaotic with a very irregular appearance like the writer had either been in a hurry or had grown angry. The letters, written with blue ink, were uneven both in form and in size and some words were barely legible even to Newt, who was used to reading old manuscripts which sometimes were written in such a bad handwriting it was close to impossible to tell whether the text was in Latin or whether there had been an ant crossing the page and the author had then decided to randomly trace its steps with a quill.

> Newt Scamander,
> 
> I WANT YOU.
> 
> Do you believe in love at first sight? You SHOULD. You’re WRONG WRONG WRONG if you don’t and I don’t like it when people are wrong about things that should be OBVIOUS. I hate it. I hate it. It annoys me so much.
> 
> You didn’t notice me, but I noticed you.
> 
> You were intended for me from the very beginning. I know it. So don’t ruin it. I will hurt you, if you ruin it and I don’t want to hurt you because I LOVE LOVE LOVE you. I want you.
> 
> Soon I will have you,
> 
> Your Dedicated Guardian

Sighing, Newt folded the letter and put it aside in order to butter a scone.

It wasn’t the first time someone had drunk-owled him and it likely wouldn’t be the last: Now that _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ had made his name known, he had begun to get letters from critics and fans alike, some of which were plain peculiar. Then there was also the way some of Theseus’ rowdier friends were in a habit of writing to him while out drinking. Brazenly, they usually wanted to know “what, if anything” he was wearing and whether they could get photos of him “down on all fours”. Newt never answered their letters nor did he tell about them to Theseus since he most certainly _did not want his brother to get involved_.

Granted, Theseus would have put a stop to his friends writing such crude letters once and for all. Unwaveringly loyal - a proud Griffindor - he had come through for Newt without hesitation every time Newt had gotten himself into a particularly bothersome pickle, mostly when he had done something illegal in one foreign country or another and had needed someone to get him a lawyer as well as an interpreter (since Newt, as a detainee, wasn’t allowed to cast any interpreting charms, or charms of any kind, for that matter), but getting help from someone dependable and trustworthy in such challenging situations was one thing, running to his big brother because of occasional discomfort was completely another. The second best son he might have been, but Newt was still a grown man, a magizoologist, a published author, a dragonforce lieutenant, and he did not need his brother fighting his battles for him. Regardless of what their parents thought, Newt _was_ perfectly capable of looking after himself without Theseus’ involvement.

At least for the most part.

The scone was still warm, thanks to a heating spell one of the Goldstein sisters had cast on it. The butter was melting on it, and Newt took an eager bite, hungrier than he had even realized.

By the time Newt was finished with breakfast, Queenie – who had the luxury of lazy mornings – was still in the bathing room. He didn’t want to interrupt her moment of relaxation, so – as he was about to follow Tina to the MACUSA headquarters – rather than calling out for her through the bathing room door, he used a simple smudge-removing spell on the letter someone had drunk-owled to him and wrote his own message on it, wishing Queenie a lovely day and thanking her for the breakfast.

Along with a dandelion he had transfigured out of a dill stem, he left the message onto the kitchen table, promptly pushing all thoughts of drunk-owling and unpleasant letters out of his mind since worrying solved nothing and would have only served to make him grumpy.

* * *

Much to his surprise, he was given an office.

An actual office.

With a door, and everything.

“It’s a bit small, I’m afraid,” Betty Bagshot sounded worried and downcast, as she waddled along the wall in the back, the one formed entirely of an empty bookshelf standing up so high Newt would need to use magic or a ladder if he wanted to reach its top. “I’m so sorry I can’t offer you anything better.”

“It’s fine as it is,” Newt assured, and although he did his best to sound confident, his voice ignored his attempts entirely and came out as its usual timid self. “It’s more than I expected, really – I didn’t know I would get an office.”

The office, cozily small though it was, had two stores, or rather, there seemed to be a large balcony overseeing the office below. Newt eyed the wooden spiral staircase curiously. It looked rickety like magic alone was keeping it intact – for all he knew, it _was_ only magic keeping the whole structure from falling down.

“There’s just some storage space up there, nothing too exciting, I’m afraid,” Miss Bagshot apologized. “This all must be so disappointing to you. You are disappointed, I can tell. I have disappointed you.”

“Not at all!”

Miss Bagshot seemed to have a rather negative general attitude. Her haggard appearance spoke of years spent worrying. Even though she couldn’t yet have been fifty-five, her hair was completely white, her skin wrinkled and so pale it almost looked grey against the green cloak she wore. She wrung her knotty hands, her thin lips turned downward.

“I’m not disappointed at all,” Newt tried to reassure her, gently. “This office has a lot of potential.”

And it did, he could see it already: the large bookshelf wall would fit his book collections, the storage space up in the balcony could be used as a separate research area. The office had no windows which was, in his case, a great advantage since it meant one less escape route for Niffler and certain other creatures who had difficulties following direction that would keep them away from trouble.

Miss Bagshot took off her moss-green hat, one with a conical crown and a wide brim, and used it to wipe away the dust on the sturdy desk in the middle of the office, her effort only serving to make enough of a dust cloud it had Newt sneezing. Wincing, she instantly gave him an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry. This office used to belong to Edmund Hag, but he retired years ago and no-one has been working here since. I’m afraid it’s a bit, erm, dusty. I’m sorry about that.”

“I don’t mind.” Newt paused, hesitating, before deciding it had to be said, “Although this seems like quite a big commitment. I’m not- I mean, I haven’t been planning on settling down. I still want to travel and it’s not- That is, I don’t yet even know for how long I will be staying in New York, so that is to say-”

Waving a dismissing hand, Miss Bagshot put her – now dusty – hat back on.

“You can use this as your personal headquarters while you travel around the world doing your research. No-one expects you to lock yourself up in here and to stay put. Most consults of the Research Department spend time travelling, collecting data to be analyzed later. As a consult for MACUSA, you are free to travel as you need to, but this office is a reminder for the way you are expected to also come back.”

It turned out, Newt’s new job was mostly about continuing his research – with the addition that he was now supposed to educate the rest of the MACUSA personnel on creatures as well as to take responsibility for any a creature Department of Magical Law Enforcement sent his way, an aspect he was more than glad to do. Getting paid for doing what he loved doing was hardly a punishment, and if it hadn’t been for all the bureaucratic paperwork, it was almost like he had been rewarded for breaking into the Graves’ Manor.

Whenever there would be a creature in need of him, he would still be executing search and rescue operations, he was well aware and didn't even bother to pretend otherwise. From now on, he would just have to be even more careful to not get caught.

* * *

After getting rid off all the dust with a few Scourging Charms he usually used on creature enclosures, Newt began to arrange his books into the bookshelf. Scattered here and there, he had a considerable amount of books down in his suitcase, more than he had even recalled, and it took him quite a while to go through them, to figure out which book to Leviosa where.

One of the books had an ink smear on the cover and it gave Newt a bit of a start – he would need ink and quills in his new office! Abandoning the hill of books onto his office floor, he hurried into his suitcase. Who knew if he would suddenly need to write something down, if someone would come to meet the new creature consult – what a bad first impression it would give if he didn’t even have a writing set on his desk!

When he was looking for the writing set, Newt happened to find a world map rolled up behind his spare sofa Thomas liked to chew on. The world map would be a nice feature in his new office, and so Newt climbed out of the suitcase with his finding prepared to attach it onto a suitable wall. Only, when he studied the walls in order to decide which one of them would fit the purpose the best, he noticed there was a small crack on the wall right beside the door like someone had once slammed the door closed so hard the wall had actually suffered some damage.

“Mortar,” he decided, dropping the world map down right there by the door, and went back into his suitcase to Accio a suitable amount of mortar needed for patching up the crack in the wall. He could have always used a spell to fix the wall, but judging by the state of the spiral staircase, magic had been used in the office once too often already and it was a high time for someone to do actual manual labor for its betterment.

So it went on – Newt drifted from one task to another before he had even managed to complete the previous task. It wasn't that he was generally bad at focusing because he _wasn't_ \- he had no problem focusing his attention on one specific thing for hours on end when he was working on a creature-related project - but he _did_ have the tendency to be a bit of a walking hurricane, and by the time there was a knock on the door, his once empty office was filled with items varying from useful to the most random and he himself was lying on his belly in the middle of it all trying to dig up a hairpin from between the planks with the help of tweezers.

Pointing his wand towards the entrance, Newt muttered a spell and went right back in between the planks with the tweezers while his magic opened the door. The hairpin was stuck in _frustratingly_ fast.

Percival Graves came to a halt the moment he had stepped inside. When Newt glanced up at him, he saw raised eyebrows and the wizard looking slowly around until finally his gaze came to rest on Newt.

“Mr. Scamander. I see you have-“ coughing, Director Graves gestured with the hand that wasn’t holding a teapot, “settled in.”

“Just so,” sighed Newt, climbing up to his feet.

The hairpin could wait – Newt was determined to get it out without using his magic; he took things like this as a challenge.

Stiffly, Director Graves walked up to him and held out the teapot.

Newt blinked at it, unsure of how he was supposed to react – he didn’t often get pointed at with teapots. Director Graves seemed to soon realize an explanation was needed, for he became a little flustered and said, hurriedly,

“I brought this for you.”

It was a fine thing, white porcelain, with a detailed Chinese Longtooth on its side. The green dragon was currently sleeping, her scaly back rising and falling in the rhythm of her breaths.

“It’s an office warming gift,” Director Graves specified. “Goldstein told me you like tea, so I thought you might like to have this.”

Reverently, Newt reached out to accept the gift. He studied it closer. Hand-made, likely, by an artist specialized in Chinese teapots and dragons. The Chinese Longtooth had been described unusually accurately in great detail. The coloring was right, there was the exact right amount of horns on her head. The quality of the product was… _impressive_ , and Newt said as much aloud, meeting the gaze of the dark eyes studying him.

With a small smile, looking relieved, Director Graves stepped closer. Newt couldn’t help but look away, up at the balcony, down at the teapot. His face was hot.

“When you pour water in it, the dragon awakes,” Director Graves’ voice was low and a finger appeared in Newt’s line of sight to stroke the Chinese Longtooth. The back of the hand had some dark hair on it apart from the pale scar that ran from the middle of the hand all the way up to the knuckle of the middle finger – a parting gift from Grindelwald, Newt knew, one none of MACUSA’s healers had been able to heal completely.

“Tell the pot to boil the water and it will. You’ll know the tea is ready when the dragon starts roaring and breathing fire.”

“What a thoughtful gift,” Newt managed, softly, addressing the hand. “Thank you very much.”

“I also refined the spellwork. It should be a challenge to break the pot, now.”

A smile tugged at his lips. Newt aimed it at the stroking finger.

“Oh, I’m sure my beasts will be up to the challenge, if I ever let them near this beauty.”

“Well,” Director Graves drawled out, “perhaps you should keep the teapot only to yourself, in that case. It could be your little secret.”

Newt dared another look from behind his hair. Director Graves had been studying the teapot, but upon noticing Newt's gaze, the dark eyes were quick to make eyecontact. Newt was equally fast to look away again.

“I suppose it could.”

They tested the teapot out. Newt poured water in it and added the tealeaves.

There weren’t yet any chairs in the office, but he managed to transfigure a sofa out of an empty box, contents of which – hay – he had earlier emptied onto his desk when he had decided he would need to get rid off it all, too old as the hay was to be used (he hadn’t yet managed to get around to casting the vanishing spell because he had been side-tracked by an interesting shadow which had turned out to be his missing writing set which now stood proudly on a book pile on which he had placed it for safekeeping).

By the time the Chinese Longtooth began to breathe fire, roaring, Newt was sitting in comfortable silence on the sofa with Director Graves.

Director Graves took both milk and sugar in his tea.

“I don’t much like tea,” he confessed like it was something to be kept between the two of them. Looking halfway at Newt, he added after a pause, “But I could get used to it.”

Something about the way he said it had Newt’s face flushing. He tried to hide behind his teacup, taking a long sip. The minty flavor had never tasted as heady as it now did.

It must have been the new teapot.

The teapot was floating by them in front of the sofa. The Chinese Longtooth was standing proudly, steam was coming out of her nostrils - the tea was still warm.

“That must have cost you a fortune,” Newt blurted out. “It looks expensive.”

“Yes,” Director Graves said, grimly. “I can only afford to eat thin gruel from now on.”

His eyes sparkled teasingly when Newt looked up from behind the safety of his fringe.

Humorless? Newt shook his head at whomever had suggested such a thing about Director Graves. Hardly!

“I can’t stand the thought of you having lost your wealth because of me,” he played along, his attempt at flirting perhaps having been more convincing had he actually managed to speak in a voice louder than a whisper, which he didn’t. Never one to give up without a good effort, however, Newt tried again, “I simply can’t let you starve yourself – I’m afraid I must buy you dinner, I insist.”

A wide grin brightened up the handsome face. It went so well with the sparkling eyes that Newt completely lost whatever nerve he had had and fixed his gaze firmly down on the hole on his trouser knee.

“I accept the offer, gladly, starving and Dragotless as I am,” Director Graves' words, solemly uttered, were enough to make Newt dizzy - what had he gotten himself into?

* * *

They ended up going out to a restaurant in Brooklyn that same evening.

And the next morning, there was a letter waiting for Newt in his new office, slipped right in from under the door,

> _You cheated on me._
> 
> _Don’t try to deny it. I saw everything. I saw you with Graves._
> 
> _You were throwing yourself all over him, YOU UNFAITHFUL SLUT OF A WHORE!_
> 
> _I love you regardless, but you need to understand this, Newton: I DO NOT SHARE. You are MINE and MINE ALONE. If you cheat on me ever again, I will not be forgiving. Please, love, don’t start being difficult. I would hate to bury anyone underground because of your unfaithfulness, but I will do it, if you give me reason to do so. So take care, my love, and STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM THAT BASTARD, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BITCH._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh yeah, now we're getting started. ;)
> 
> Thank you sooooo much for your support! It means a lot to me and every single comment cheered me up.
> 
> Dragot for your thoughts!


	5. The Unicorn

The suitcase was by his leg and Pickett was asleep in his pocket, but other than that, Newt was on unfamiliar terrain completely – Director Graves was smiling at him from the other side of their small table, briefly saluting Newt with his wineglass before drinking, his throat working as he swallowed. Newt tore his gaze away from the stubbled chin and resisted the urge to wring his hands.

Was this a date? Were they on a date? It was a lot like a date, but perhaps Director Graves saw it merely as a kindness returned.

The room was smoky. Wizards in their fine suits and witches with their pearls and feathery headbands chattered at the tables with occasional laughter breaking out, while a jazz band played and a young black witch sang in her soulful voice,

_”You never said ‘Accio’,_  
_yet my heart still flew to you_  
_and just by smiling at it,_  
_you set it aglow._

_You never used potions or spells;_  
_your charms were enough._  
_Reparo won’t fix a broken heart, baby,_  
_so please be gentle, my heart is not tough.”_

“Gertha and Her Seven Goblins,” Director Graves said, lowering his glass down onto the white tablecloth, when the tallest of the goblins began his clarinet solo. “They play here often, as far as I’m aware.”

“Oh,” said Newt, trying feverishly to decide what to do with his hands and where to put them. On the table? In his lap? By his sides? Why were his hands always in the way when he was trying to have an important conversation?

As he looked towards the band, seemingly oblivious to Newt’s blithe, Director Graves was rubbing his chin. The silver ring with his family crest – two crossed wands over a complicated pattern that reminded Newt of Celtic knots – gleamed in the candle light.

“They were mentioned in _The Grail_ the other day, if you didn’t happen to read the article. Apparently Gertha has invested a considerable amount of money in No-Maj stocks which, according to many competent seers, is not a good idea at this time. Seventy-seven _competent_ seers from New York to California claim all to have had similar visions of No-Maj stock market crashing sometime between now and two years from now, in December 1929 at the latest.”

Newt didn’t read _The Grail_ or any other financial publications – they were among the least interesting things he could think of, although he did approve of the financial newspapers as temporary nest material for some of his creatures. Lizbeth had been outright delighted to turn the interview of Magical Finance Minister into bedding for her young.

“It’s not illegal per se for the wizarding kind to buy No-Maj Stocks,” Director Graves stared at the half-empty contents of his wineglass, “but in my opinion, it’s at the very least _morally questionable_ to use seers to cheat No-Majs off their money. No-Maj folk is in many ways vulnerable against magic, and while magical creatures may be your passion, Mr. Scamander, protecting the vulnerable ones is mine.”

Tilting his head, Newt considered the wizard looking down into the glass.

“It that aspect,” he eventually said, softly, “we are very much alike.”

Director Graves’ eyes rose up to meet his and the look in them softened, Newt noted before he cast his gaze down, blushing, terribly self-conscious. He more so felt than saw Director Graves leaning in closer over the table and the faint scent of his cologne made Newt shiver, their proximity had his mind flashing instinctively to the toys he had bought in Berlin, the toys meant for penetration, for _self-pleasuring_.

Director Graves made him greedy, greedy for things he didn’t yet have.

“Indeed, Mr. Scamander,” was spoken in a low voice, “albeit I protect others by upholding law and order in our society, whereas your protective manner has the occasional unfortunate tendency to manifest itself by _disturbing the said law and order_ I so carefully try to uphold.”

“If it’s not right and just,” said Newt, “it shouldn’t be the law either. Some aspects of ‘your law and order’ should be changed because the creature laws are mostly outdated and outright cruel.”

Director Graves hummed noncommittally and raised the wineglass up to his lips.

“I can understand your motives,” he mused after the wineglass came to rest on the table again a little emptier, “although the way you go about reaching your goals, I fear, will one day end up with you standing behind bars.”

Newt gave a timid smile at his own wineglass, still mostly full.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a good bartender,” was his attempt at a joke.

Chuckling, Director Graves was swirling the red wine, his hold on the glass relaxed, loose. Newt could feel his eyes on him, heavy, intent, considering, and his blush deepened. His face was so hot he put a hand onto his cheek to try to cool it down. His fingers felt blissfully cold against the heated skin.

“Perhaps,” said Director Graves, “you should then consider living your life according to the laws. If you are not satisfied with the laws, the most constructive thing would be to campaign in order to bring out societal change – laws _can_ be changed, Mr. Scamander, given a good reason. It is far less constructive to rebel against them by disregarding them through your actions.”

Newt studied his hands silently and, as the players had had their solos, Gertha went on with the song,

_”To resist, my baby,_  
_I tried so hard to resist, I tried my very best,_  
_but my heart tore itself right out of my chest_  
_and gave itself to you, only to you._

_You never used potions or spells;_  
_your charms were enough._  
_Reparo won’t fix a broken heart, baby._  
_Must loving you be so rough?”_

Even though it had been Newt who had suggested buying Director Graves dinner, it had been mutually agreed that it should be Director Graves who decided on the restaurant since he, unlike Newt, knew also the kind of managements in New York that were less for illegal creature trade or other criminal activity and more for actual good food and pleasant atmosphere.

After leaving Newt’s new office at around half eight, they had ended up in The Unicorn – which didn’t actually have anything to do with unicorns, but was nonetheless a nice enough restaurant as far as Newt was concerned. Nothing too fancy, not too crowded, and although a reservation generally seemed to be needed, Mrs. Gomolka had taken one look at them before ushering them inside, speaking in her Polish accent,

 _”Both Director Graves_ and _Newt Scamander in my restaurant – and_ at the same time! _Welcome, gentlemen, welcome! Please, let me see you to your table.”_

Their table was situated in a private booth, apart enough from the other tables, which allowed Newt to relax and eased the tightness of his chest he always developed when in crowds. Just moments after taking their seats, they were already served mushroom soup for starters, after which Newt had ordered salmon with lime dressing and Director Graves had gone for trout grilled with herb butter sauce.

Now, they were waiting for their main courses to arrive.

“I’m not your supervisor.”

The statement was unexpected and enough to make Newt pause. Curiously, with his head ducked down, he peeked at Director Graves through his lashes. The wizard was studying the red wine through the wineglass, the thick brows furrowed. There was a slight flush on his cheeks, but – upon noticing Newt looking at him – he met Newt’s eyes steadily without an ounce of hesitation.

Newt lowered his gaze down onto the safety of the silver tiepin attached to the grey tie. It had a similar family crust as the cufflinks – they were clearly a matching set.

The wineglass was set down and Director Graves let go off it, placing his hands onto the table palms down. He was leaning in, and when he spoke, his voice was a touch louder than before as if he was determined to make sure Newt wouldn’t miss a word.

“You’re a consult for Department of Research, Mr. Scamander, and due to that, for MACUSA in general. As the head of Department of Research, Miss Bagshot is your superior and I am _not_. You don’t work for me. You are aware of that, are you not?”

“Yes,” Newt said, perplexed, “of course. I did read the contract before I signed it.”

The last time he had signed something without reading it first (he simply hadn’t had the time since the butcher had already raised the axe), Theseus had ended up buying him back from the Bulihariam tribe in Borneo. The Lembuswana had been set free rather than cut into handbag material, so Newt still counted his time as a slave well worth it despite of Theseus’ fury with him afterwards.

Director Graves stared when he told him as much.

“Pardon?” he said like he suspected he had misheard. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but did you just say you were _forced into slavery_ in Borneo?”

“Only for a few weeks,” Newt hastened to assure. “And they mostly wanted me to make yarn which I initially couldn’t do all that well but was – shall we say – ‘required’ to learn rather quickly. And I wasn’t exactly _forced_ into slavery as much as I agreed to it in order to save the Lembuswana from getting butchered. They are rare as it is and I initially couldn’t even believe it – how could anyone seek to harm such a beautiful, gentle being?”

The look on Director Graves’ face was unreadable.

“How indeed,” was eventually said in a low voice. He never looked away from Newt.

A pretty witch with bright red hair and freckles all over her face appeared by their table with a black tray. Steam was rising up from the plates as she placed them onto the table. The combined smell of salmon and lime was promising and the light pink trout dish on Director Graves’ plate looked equally inviting.

Without being requested, the waitress poured more wine into Director Graves’ now empty wineglass. Before disapparating, she offered them a smile and a cheerful, “Bon appetit!”

By now, Gertha and Her Seven Goblins had moved onto their next song, and Newt took a moment to listen to the lyrics once the two of them had begun to eat and the required, “How is your dish?”, “Good, thank you. What about yours?”, “It is good as well” had been exchanged.

The rhythm of this song was speedier, he noted, the melody catchier.

_“You showed me your wand,_  
_and said you loved me too,_  
_but now you never respond_  
_when I owl to you._  
_Oh, baby, baby,_  
_love is so cruel.”_

Swallowing down a piece of potato, Newt glanced up from his food at the wizard on the other side of the table. If they hadn’t been eating, perhaps Director Graves would have suggested they should dance to this catchier song. The thought had Newt blushing and he was quick to avert his gaze down onto his napkin. It had unicorn patterns (not at all realistic or precise) on it, and looking at them, he tried to convince himself he hadn’t even wanted to dance with Director Graves, that he wasn't disappointed.

“As I was saying earlier,” Director Graves spoke when the two of them had emptied their plates and were waiting for their desserts to be served, “I am not your supervisor, Mr. Scamander. I’m not the one to decide whether you get promotions, whether you get fired, and I’m not the one to whom you report. I also want you to know that now that you have accepted the position as a consult for MACUSA, your ‘search and rescue operation’ into my home has been forgiven. I won’t use it against you – although I sincerely hope you won’t do anything as stupid ever again.”

“With all these factors considered,” he went on, “I want you to remember that I am neither your supervisor nor your superior. We are, as the case stands, _equals_ with similar goals albeit different ways to try to reach them. What I mean to say is, you can speak your mind to me, Mr. Scamander, without fear of repercussions."

There was something vulnerable in Director Graves’ manner, something in the way he had just spoken, even if he looked self-confident on the surface. It might not have been perceptible, if one wasn’t as empathetic as Newt was, but since he _had_ , in fact, the ability to tune into and perceive people's emotions and feelings, he did now notice Director Graves wasn’t as confident as he was trying to come across as. 

Newt thought the matter over, sipping his wine, contemplative.

He wasn’t unaware of Director Graves’… _reputation_. A lone wolf, he was called. Humorless. Strict. Precise. Unyielding when required, exceptionally adaptive when needed. A bastard with a stick up in his ass. Charming when he wanted to be, but unsociable outside work. No friends. No family. Trust issues. _”Has seen too much shit, way too much.”_ Work was his life, or so many claimed.

Yet, there he had been earlier that day in Newt’s office, holding onto a teacup, carefully like he feared he might break it, drinking tea even though he didn’t even like tea, having come all the way to Newt’s office to bring him a teapot. And now he was sitting here, saying the two of them were equals, that Newt didn’t work for _him_ , a consult for MACUSA though he was.

Newt thought about the momentary vulnerability he had noticed in Director Graves’ manner. How many friendships had Director Graves lost due to becoming a potential friend’s supervisor? How many of his relationships had turned awkward when he had risen up the ranks? His background as a member of the famed Graves’ family would have likely helped him to make his career, but it also would have brought in his life those who would seek his friendship only to use it for their own gain – as a Scamander, Newt had had his fair share of people trying to get close enough to him to get access to his family’s connections.

Despite of the way he had broken into the Graves’ Manor, the relationship between him and Director Graves was an easy-going one as far as Newt’s relationships were concerned. Newt _genuinely liked_ Director Graves and Director Graves had been gracious with him, always, even that night when he had found Newt in the heart of his home. He was an honorable man, a good one, and it wasn’t farfetched to think Newt wanted to nurture their relationship, that he wanted to help it to grow into something more.

Newt had apparently stayed silent for a little too long in his thoughts, for Director Graves’ voice was somehow deflated when he suddenly went on,

“You are allowed to leave my company when you want to and to disagree with me and to say no to me without fear of repercussions. I would never take what you wouldn’t willingly give – to do otherwise would be a crime. You are in no way required to entertain me. I would _never_ use threats or extortion to-"

“Newt.”

Giving the wizard a wary look, having cut him off, Newt took a deep breath, coming to a decision, and offered again, nervously,

“Newt. You may call me Newt.”

The look on Director Graves’ face was one of pure surprise.

He looked absolutely stunned.

So stunned, in fact, that Newt was quick to add, “If you like, of course. If that is something you wouldn’t mind. It’s not like you’d _have_ to – I wouldn’t threaten or extort you either, and it’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable, but if-“

“Newt.”

His name cut the rambling off, effectively.

“Newt,” Director Graves said again. He pronounced it seriously, solemnly like Theseus had his auror vows.

Newt stared, frozen in silence.

A pregnant pause, then –

Director Graves held out his hand over the table,

“Percival.”

“Percival,” Newt repeated, breathless.

The grip of the offered hand was firm and strong, the hand itself warm and the perfect size for spanking and _where on earth had that thought come from!_

“My pleasure,” murmured Director Graves.

“No,” Newt disagreed, softly, blushing as he looked at their joined hands. “It’s mine.”

Their desserts, apricot pudding served in fancy glass bowls, was served soon after. The bowls were both French, but apparently that did nothing to make them like each other because they threw insults at one another the whole time Newt and Director Graves – _Percival_ – were eating out of them.

“I don’t believe your lies,” one of them snapped at the other. “I can see right through you!”

“How dare you look at my insides!” cried the other. “My insides are _private_!”

Newt did his best to mediate, all but forgetting his pudding, and – despite of looking amused more so than suitably mediating – Director Graves – _Percival_ – was quick to join in on his efforts, although he clearly didn’t take the matter as seriously as Newt did.

Later, Newt paid for the food. They lingered outside in an alleyway for some time before eventually wishing each other good night and going their separate ways.

Newt couldn't stop smiling - it must have been a date for sure.

Right?

* * *

Queenie looked up at him from her knitting, sharply, when he entered the living room at almost midnight after having made his evening rounds in the suitcase, still unable to stop smiling. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it and bit her lip.

“Oh, honey,” she eventually sighed, shaking her head. “Please be careful for your both sakes.”

“Whose sakes?” asked Tina, drying her hair with a tower. “Oh, hi, Newt.”

* * *

>   
>  _You cheated on me._
> 
> _Don’t try to deny it. I saw everything. I saw you with Graves._
> 
> _You were throwing yourself all over him, YOU UNFAITHFUL SLUT OF A WHORE!_
> 
> _I love you regardless, but you need to understand this, Newton: I DO NOT SHARE. You are MINE and MINE ALONE. If you cheat on me ever again, I will not be forgiving. Please, love, don’t start being difficult. I would hate to bury anyone underground because of your unfaithfulness, but I will do it, if you give me reason to do so. So take care, my love, and STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM THAT BASTARD, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BITCH._  
> 

Newt studied the letter carefully.

Again, blue ink had been used, but this time it had been written on a white, decorative napkin, similar to the one he had had in The Unicorn. Based on the content of the letter, whoever had written this message had also been in The Unicorn, likely at the same time he and Director Gr- _Percival_ had been there.

Had someone been there, observing them, spying, listening in without their notice?

The thought was unpleasant, very much so.

Usually Newt only got unpleasant letters from people who were back in England, with Theseus, and posed no-one any actual threats. This, though, this message was clearly a threat, not only to him but also possibly to Percival.

This needed to be dealt with and the sooner, the better.

There was a limited amount of people allowed in the north wing of the fourth floor in which Department of Research was located: Miss Bagshot and the consults, of course, in the addition of Percival and his aurors as well as Picquery who had access to most places in the city – those were at least the ones Newt was aware of, although there could of course be more. Nonetheless, since the first letter had arrived after the first lecture he had given to the aurors, it wasn’t farfetched to assume it might have been an auror writing such nasty things.

Which auror, though, that was trickier.

Still, Newt took things like these as a challenge. He had never backed down from a challenge.

* * *

A lecture on nifflers was scheduled at noon. At fifteen to two PM, Newt gave the aurors a surprise test with the excuse that he wanted to know what they had so far learnt “so he could improve his teaching methods” while in reality he was determined to get samples of everyone’s handwriting. He had charmed a whole box of pencils to prevent anyone from changing their handwriting, but fortunately the aurors accepted his explanation of “cheating preventing charms”, although a few – including Percival and Senior Auror Oliviers with his sharp eyes – raised their eyebrows skeptically.

* * *

The handwriting in one of the tests was the exact same as in the letter he had found in his office that morning. Newt narrowed his eyes at the name written on the test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It can't be that easy, can it? Stay tuned to find out. ;)
> 
> If you liked anything in this chapter, I would love to hear what it was.
> 
> I love reading the comments, so thank you so much to Strawberryfusion, EstherCloyse, Sagey_Thyst, Aim (miaspeaksblog), chibicheeberson, BlipBloop, larthrain, FrozenElectron, fantastik_obskurials, lordladyisis, Cenco and Limoncello_Bella for commenting on chapter four! I appreciate it very much and it's awesome to know I'm not writing this fic just for myself, that you guys are still reading.
> 
> Thank you also to the people who left kudos!


	6. Mallington

Mallington.

Newt stared at the name, disheartened.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was still recovering from the four weeks Grindelwald had spent posing as Percival fourteen months ago and many aurors were dealing with the personal aftermath of the Imperius curse having been cast on them as well as with the shame they felt for “having let the director down”. According to Tina, general suspicion and paranoia had been prevalent the few months after Grindelwald’s identity had been revealed, and aurors were still in a habit of casting Revelios at each other and at Percival without warning, randomly, “just in case,” a practice of which Percival approved.

They would take this hard, Newt knew, finding out that one in their midst had disregarded all they stood for by threatening one of MACUSA’s consults and, possibly, their director. This would be a hard hit for the aurors, especially so since – based on what Newt had gathered from Tina’s passing comments – Mallington was generally well liked by his colleagues. Apart from shoving Newt in the hallways, he behaved in a jovial manner and was regarded as a dependable auror as well as a loyal friend. At work, he was friends with most everyone, he had been given several fond nicknames ranging from Miss Molly to The Fucker, he had a permanent spot as a beater on The Aurora Legialus, the department’s all-auror quidditch team.

For the seventh time, Newt studied the letter, comparing the handwriting to Mallington’s in the test.

They were identical. There was no question about that and an anti-forging spell had already told him as much: Mallington was the one who had written the letter.

Grimacing, Newt was slow to fold the napkin and to put it into his vest pocket.

Seeming to sense something was wrong, Pickett, who had been carefully studying him from his spot on top of an ink bottle, chirped questioningly. Newt pet him gently.

“Naught to worry, little one. It’ll be all right in a jiffy, just wait and see.”

Despite of the comforting tone, Pickett, looking as dubious as it was possible for a bowtruckle to look, ended up in the pocket with the napkin where he quickly grasped it, tightly, like he understood the napkin with the message written on it was evidence and was thus determined to keep it from getting lost since, yes, granted, Newt did have a bit of a bad habit of losing non-creature-related items – Merlin, he still had no idea where his wallet was and therefore kept his coins in a sock.

In all honesty, Newt wanted to ignore the letters. He wanted to ignore them and to wait until the situation somehow solved itself. If this latest message hadn’t included mentions of Percival, Newt might have done just that, ignored the problem until it went away, but now that Percival had been involved, he couldn’t do that, not when his lack of action might put someone else in danger.

Sighing, Newt attempted to run a hand through his hair, only for it to be caught in a tangle.

What a mess it all was.

Pickett was peeking up at him curiously from the pocket like he thought _Newt_ was amazing, like he found _Newt_ endlessly fascinating. A smile tugged at Newt’s lips, he couldn’t help it even under the circumstances – Pickett was endearing in that way, always seeing the wonders in others, never in himself.

“I need to go to talk to Mallington,” he let the bowtruckle know of his decision. “Perhaps if I can make him see sense, I won’t need to get Tina or Percival or any of the other aurors involved. If this stays between me and Mallington, perhaps we can spare the rest of the department from any further discomfort. Merlin knows they’ve had enough of it as it is.”

Pickett chirped, cheerfully, although he of course couldn’t really have understood what Newt had just said. He was only fluent in leaf rustling, after all.

* * *

It was raining.

The city outside the squat room window was grey and gleaming wet, but none of the aurors – busy as they were working – seemed to pay that any mind, unlike Newt, who had spelled himself dry down in the lobby after fetching Roy (who had managed to get away from the suitcase just as Newt had been about to leave his office in order to go find Mallington).

Sitting at their desks, aurors were leaning over papers and case files, the cold light of their desk lamps giving them a hue almost as grey as the city outside. Artmore and Brakov were discussing in low voices, studying the WANTED posters on the wall, while a few Junior Aurors observed moving dots on a large map of New York attached onto a screen, making notes on their writing pads. The sound of typewriters – the rattling tac-tac-tac and the high-pitched _ping_ whenever a line was finished – told of Tina, Simmons and Borg writing reports, while Senior Auror Oliviers moved around the room in his cat form – grey but for the black stripes – with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, overseeing the working, jumping up onto the desks to observe closer.

Newt hesitated at the squad room door. Even more so than confrontation, he _strongly disliked_ rooms as crowded as the squat room. He didn’t want to go in there and the mere thought of _having a confrontation in a crowded room_ was enough to have him sweat and his chest tighten painfully.

As Newt stood there, rubbing his chest to ease the tightness away, the janitor with the walrus moustache came to mop up the black-and-white-tiled floor right beside the door with a pipe between his lips. When their gazes met, briefly, he gave Newt a murmured,

“You look kind of pale there, Scamander. Would you like some water?”

To be addressed then and there had the tightness rising up to his throat, and all the voice Newt could get out was but a soft hitch of a breath. _Jeffrey_ , read the nametag attached onto the front of the grey overalls – under it was a dancing mop, the symbol of MACUSA’s janitorial services – and Newt, self-conscious, painfully aware of Jeffrey studying him, settled for shaking his head at the nametag by way of answering.

“Are you sure?”

Jeffrey sounded doubtful and Newt hurried to nod, feeling his face heating up. He tried to step backwards, to put distance between the two of them, but suddenly his arm was taken in a grip which – despite of being gentle more so than firm – was enough to halt him in place.

“I’ve seen Mallington shoving you in the hallways,” Jeffrey spoke in a low voice like he wanted no-one to overhear. “If you’re now standing here at the squat room door, anxious and looking outright terrified, because of Mallington, I want you to know that MACUSA doesn’t tolerate bullying. Shoving you is physical assault. His behavior is unacceptable. Unfortunately – as the _outdated_ rules currently stand – not much can be done about it until you make an official complaint – which is why you should definitely report him to Director Graves so something can be done about it.”

“Th-thank you for your concern,” Newt managed to whisper despite of the tightness in his throat, “b-but I have it under c-control.”

Even though he appreciated the way Jeffrey had tried to show him empathy, he was still uncomfortable with having had his personal space invaded. Hoping he didn’t come across as rude, Newt was quick to pull his arm free with a soft “excuse me” and to walk round Jeffrey, while the mop leant towards Jeffrey like it hoped to get back to work and a bucket with its small legs splashed soapy water over its sides in its haste to stay out of the way.

With Jeffrey’s gaze hot on his back, Newt stepped into the squat room, chest tight, heart pounding, keeping his head ducked and doing his best to look unassuming. Even with his eyes downcast, he was conscious of the suspicious looks Oliviers was instantly sending his way – the Senior Auror was notable for disliking everyone and everything that got in the way of his aurors working. _”Almost as bad as the bossman himself,”_ Newt had heard some of the Junior Aurors complaining. _”A mini-Graves. I wish they would pull the sticks out of each other’s asses, but they only seem to encourage one another to become even more humorless and strict.”_

It wasn’t precisely forbidden for the consults to come to the squad room, but depending on the day, Senior Auror Oliviers didn’t always care about that. A few times when Newt had come to see Tina, Oliviers had shown him the door right away, claiming Newt was “in the way” and that he was making it harder for the aurors to concentrate “with the racket” he had brought along with him, and even though Wilhelm sitting up on his shoulder had been a screeching fairy, not “a racket”, Newt had not dared to argue his case.

This time, thankfully, Oliviers seemed to let him be, although – when Newt dared a glance at the wizard – the green cat eyes were locked onto him as if Oliviers wanted to make it clear Newt would fly out of the door the minute he “got in the way”.

Unlike Oliviers, the rest of the aurors didn’t pay him any mind – Tina didn’t even seem to notice him. Focused on writing her report as she was, she didn’t even glance up when Newt stepped by her desk, which was a small mercy in itself since she would have only asked uncomfortable questions like what he was doing there and why he wanted to talk with Mallington.

By one of the windows near the back of the room, Mallington was sitting at his desk among folders, papers, dull pencils, a dirty coffee cup, a framed photo of a teenage girl who seemed to be practicing ballet, and a large amount of disregarded candy wrappers. There was a frown of concentration on his forehead, as he read the paper in his hands, and – with his fedora and coat hanging from the rack nearby – his red wand was now visible in his shoulder holster. Newt gave it a wary look, as he came to a halt by the desk.

Confronting Mallington at work was not the most comfortable of choices, but it probably was the wisest one nonetheless. At least here, surrounded by his colleagues, Mallington wouldn’t dare to turn the confrontation physical, and even if he did, it would surely be short-lived with Tina and the ever so sharp Oliviers present.

As a war veteran, Newt was confident enough with his dueling abilities not to be afraid for his own sake, but if a physical confrontation was to be prolonged, there was always the chance of an accident happening – he would defend himself if needed, but he didn’t want to _truly hurt_ anyone while doing so, accidentally or otherwise, so it would be preferable if no physical confrontation would be had in the first place.

”Mallington?”

Having managed to find his voice despite of the tightness of his throat, Newt wrung his hands – _he hated confrontation_.

“Um, may I have a moment of your time, please. If possible?”

Absent-mindedly, Mallington looked up from his paper. Then the look in his eyes hardened, as he recognized Newt. The nostrils flared, and Mallington pushed his chair away from the desk, turning to Newt. Through the white shirt, his muscles could be seen flexing.

“Scamander,” wasn’t far from a growl. “What _the fuck_ do you want?”

“I want to talk about the letters.” Newt went straight to the point. “The ones you’ve been writing to me.”

“Oh, you realized they were from me?” Mallington snorted. “I thought it would take you longer.”

Not for the first time, Newt wondered why Mallington seemed to dislike him so much.

“I must ask you to stop sending them,” he addressed the words to Mallington’s collar. “I don’t welcome that kind of attention, I really don’t. You need to stop.”

Suddenly the bulky chest was so close to Newt he took an instinctive step backwards to avoid colliding with it. He dared a glance up – Mallington had stood up and was now snarling down at him, towering over him – and quickly looked down at the collar again.

“I don’t know how you figured I was the one sending those letters,” Mallington’s voice was full of venom, “but I guarantee you, _Scamander_ , that I’m not going to stop sending them until I get what I want and there is nothing you can do about that.”

“If you don’t stop, I will have to report you and I rather it wouldn’t come to that.”

“Report me all you like, you little harlot. There’s nothing that can be hold against me.”

Mallington was leaning so close Newt half feared he might attempt to bite.

“It’s hardly a crime to criticize your idiotic book.”

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”

Oliviers was frowning at them, having followed Newt to Mallington’s desk. He flicked his cigarette downwards and the ash fell below into an ashtray on Mallington’s desk. Shooting his supervisor a quick look, Mallington took a step backwards. Newt breathed out a sigh of relief. He _strongly disliked_ it when his space was invaded.

“No problem, boss,” Mallington said quietly.

Olivier gave Newt a calculating look.

“You better leave, Mr. Scamander. You are disturbing our work.”

When Newt exited the squat room, Jeffrey was still looking at him, the look on his face behind the moustache unreadable. It wasn’t until then that it occurred to Newt out of nowhere that Jeffrey’s breath hadn’t smelt like tobacco at all even though he constantly had the pipe between his lips.

How peculiar.

* * *

“What was that about?”

Predictably, Tina had followed him right out of the squat room. They had barely even walked around a corner when she was already grasping him by the arm, holding him firmly in place, a familiar look of determination and concern all over her face. It was a look she gave Newt a little too often, now that Newt thought of it – surely there wasn’t that constant a need to look at him like that?

“I ask again,” she said, slowly. “What. On. Earth. Was. _That?_ Mallington looked like he might punch you and _you_ , Newton Artemis Scamander, are not in a habit of walking up to people like that without a good reason, so don’t you even try to say it was nothing because it clearly was _not_ nothing!”

Newt snapped his mouth shut, trying to think of something else to say. Only, Tina _was_ an auror, not at all a bad one, and she had interrogated enough crooks to know how to push. Newt, meanwhile, was a bad liar and felt guilty about not answering her questions and, in the end, the truth did come out.

“I think I went on a date yesterday,” he told her, “ _but_ even if it was a date – which it necessary wasn’t because it could have just been because he gave me the teapot and we didn’t really specify what it was, anyway, even though we had dinner and there was music and I wouldn’t have minded dancing even if I didn’t say that to him – but even if it _was_ a date – which it necessarily wasn’t – I still did _not_ ‘throw myself all over him’ even if the letter claimed I did, so not only was Mallington terribly rude, he was also exaggerating and outright wrong, but that’s of course not the main point since our focus should be on the content of the letters even though I’m really, really sorry I need to bring them to your attention as it can’t be easy to hear or accept that a friend would do such a thing.”

Noting the way Tina was now staring at him blankly like she hadn’t quite understood a word he had been saying, Newt concluded – after waiting for a few silent moments for her to say something – that perhaps he hadn’t explained the matter clearly enough.

“Um,” he therefore tried again. “They were love letters, I think. I received one earlier and one this morning after the date, although it necessarily wasn’t a date.”

The blank looked turned into a grimace in an instant. She rubbed her neck, awkward.

“So you have,” she gestured with a hand, clearing her throat, “erm, _feelings_ for one another, you and Mallington, and that,” he made another wide gesture,” back in the squat room was… a lovers’ quarrel? How come I didn’t know there was anything going on between you and Mallington?”

Jeffrey took that moment to walk past them with the bucket running after him splashing soapy water everywhere. He must have heard the words and it almost looked like his shoulders slumped, like he walked faster. Newt didn’t have the time to wonder about it, though, because Tina was already pressing again.

It took quite a while for Newt to find the words to explain properly, but by the time they had gotten over the “Wait, wait, Newt, hold on. You don’t mean _Percival_ as in _Director Graves_ , do you? You went on a _date_ with _Director Graves_?” and when he handed her the napkin, her whole demeanor changed. Where before she had been Tina, Newt’s friend, there now was Junior Auror Goldstein holding the napkin, studying it carefully.

Studying the napkin, she listened as Newt told her about the threats, about the other letter Mallington had sent him earlier, about the things it had contained. When Newt mentioned the napkin had been left that morning in his office at MACUSA, she looked grim enough to have a group of younger Junior Aurors practically running past them, heads ducked, and when Newt gave her Mallington’s test, pointing out the similarities in the handwriting, she paled, looking like she might be sick.

“Mallington said he wouldn’t stop sending them until he got what he wanted.”

Something pained flickered across Tina’s face upon hearing the words and it hurt Newt to see it.

She counted Mallington among her friends. They played quidditch together, the seeker for the Aurora Legialus as she was.

The pain in her eyes didn’t vanish even as she met Newt’s gaze, determined.

They went back to the squat room out of Tina’s insistence. She marched straight to Mallington.

* * *

“It’s hardly a crime to criticize an idiotic book,” was Mallington’s defense. “I didn’t even send those letters to _him_ ,” he glanced at Newt down his nose, “but straight to the publisher. I don’t know how they figured I was the one sending them, but protecting creatures is _bullshit_. Bullshit! They’re monsters and should be treated accordingly! It’s a waste to think they’re capable of anything other than slaughter and I won’t stop sending letters to the publisher until he stops publishing Scamander’s misleading crap. You know Francesca was killed by a werewolf, Goldstein,” Newt’s eyes flew to the dancing ballerina in the photograph on Mallington’s desk, “so excuse me for trying to make this world a better place for other teenage girls who only want to dance! My sister would have turned twenty-one this year, Scamander,” Mallington sneered at him, “if one of those beasts you so love hadn’t torn her into pieces on her fourteenth birthday.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” was the only thing Newt could bring himself to say to a brother mourning over his little sister.

A traumatizing encounter with a magical beast explained why Mallington disliked him so, Newt thought sadly.

“It’s terrible what happened to Fran,” Tina said, gently, “but it still doesn’t explain why you would send such threatening letters to Newt. I do need an explanation. These are illegal threats.”

She handed the napkin over and Mallington took it, studying it, turning it this way and that.

“What’s this shit, then?” he said after a while. “Is this supposed to be some kind of a joke?”

“Isn’t that your handwriting?”

“Sure,” Mallington admitted to Tina’s enquiry, handing the napkin back, “but no way I wrote that. I would _never_ write shit like that about Graves, I respect the bossman way too much – in fact, I only agree to go to Scamander’s waste of lectures because the director specifically asked me to attend. He seemed to believe they would be good for me and I’m always willing to give Graves the benefit of doubt.”

“Speaking of Graves,” he went on, “we need to take this matter to him. That is clearly my handwriting and if someone is trying to frame me, I want the very best on the case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick update to let you know I haven't given up on this fic. If you're still reading, let me know! :)
> 
> Thanks for all the feedback so far!

**Author's Note:**

> 'Cause if you liked it, then you should have left a comment on it.


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